


Taken, kneeling

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Oscar Wilde would either be really proud or really pissed at me, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Priest Kink, Sterek Week 2017, Undercover, basically if you read this fic you will go to hell, stereklyrics3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 02:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12547224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: As the strength of the McCall pack steadily grows over the years, so does the pack’s reputation as advisors and counselors; supernatural acolytes.  Which is how Stiles Stilinski finds himself kneeling in the penitent side of the confessional box of Saint James church on the California-Oregon border, with Derek Hale sitting in the adjacent stall.It always starts the same way, with Stiles’ smug, suggestive whisper, dripping sarcasm. “It has been four days since my last confession.  Bless me,Father.  I have sinned.”To which Derek replies, voice droll, “From whom do you seek forgiveness?”And the correct answer, which Stiles always supplies, is: “All the angels and saints.”Because it’s fuckingangelswho have landed Stiles and Derek in this mess to begin with.





	Taken, kneeling

**Author's Note:**

> For Sterek Week 2017 Day 5: Lyrics & Quotes

_“Love is a sacrament that should be taken kneeling”- Oscar Wilde_

+++

As the strength of the McCall pack steadily grows over the years, so does the pack’s reputation as advisors and counselors; supernatural acolytes. Which is how Stiles Stilinski finds himself kneeling in the penitent side of the confessional box of Saint James church on the California-Oregon border, with Derek Hale sitting in the adjacent stall.

It always starts the same way, with Stiles’ smug, suggestive whisper, dripping sarcasm. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. It has been four days since my last confession. Bless me, Father. I have sinned.” 

To which Derek replies, voice droll, “From whom do you seek forgiveness?”

And the correct answer, which Stiles always supplies, is: “All the angels and saints.”

Because it’s fucking angels who have landed Stiles and Derek in this mess to begin with.

+++

A few months prior, an established pack on the northern border approached Scott when two large plots of their land had been badly burned away, seemingly overnight. Scott, Stiles, Derek and Lydia had driven up to inspect the ruined areas, and what they found was truly frightening. Patches of land, nearly a mile in diameter, flattened, blackened and consumed. It looked like the woods had been vaporized, incinerated. Stiles had never seen anything like it in his whole life.

“There was never any fire, no smoke. It’s impossible that no one would notice with destruction of this size,” Alpha Garcia-Johnson informs them. “One day the land was flourishing, the next, gone.”

“Based on the circular nature of the destruction, I think it’s safe to assume someone has been coming onto your land to summon… something,” Lydia tells them, eyes wide. “But I’ve never seen ruination of this magnitude before from a summoning. Have you tracked any scents? Do you have any leads?”

“It’s hard to catch a solid scent, what with all the ash,” the Alpha tells her, and Derek hums in solemn agreement. Stiles imagines Derek’s nose is well acquainted with the cloying scent of smoldering wood. The thought sends a pang through his chest, but he brushes it off before Derek or Scott notice a change in his heartbeat. 

“So we’re looking for a demon of some sort?” Scott asks Lydia, but it’s Derek who answers him.

“Not demons. Angels”

“Angels? Little naked babies flying around did all this damage?” Stiles windmills his arms, motions dramatically at the wreckage around them. He’s trying to envision cupid with flaming arrows, but it still doesn't explain the extent of the devastation.

“Seraphim,” Lydia supplies, hazel eyes lighting up as her phenomenal brain switches into high gear. “I’m afraid they are not quite the pop culture angels you are probably imagining, Stiles.”

“Well then, what are they?” Scott demands.

They all look at Derek as he speaks. “Seraphim. The burning ones.”

+++

And so it is decided that Stiles and Derek will remain at the border to gather intel on the person Stiles has lovingly dubbed, ‘That Fucking Idiot Who’s Summoning Angels,’ and report back to the Hale and Garcia-Johnson packs. They’ll start the search for the culprit, everyone agrees, at the local congregation. The best place to find a sinner is among the devout.

“So we’re saying there’s a wolf in the shepherd's flock? How’s that for irony?” Stiles laughs. Derek smacks him in the back of the head. 

So Stiles is moonlighting as a new parishioner at Saint James church. Derek, everyone’s learned over the years, was a linguistics major with a theology minor when he attended NYU, so it’s decided he will pose as a new traveling priest, fresh out of the seminary. There is no end to Stiles’ amusement over this turn of events, and he makes sure Derek suffers every dog collar joke that he can come up with.

The other clergymen at the church assign the shiny new Father Derek to Reconciliation on Saturday and Wednesday afternoons, to hear the confessions of the parish members, and absolve them of their sins. It is the perfect guise for Stiles and Derek to meet privately and discuss their findings. 

Derek is always in the confessional box before Stiles arrives, and neither is clearly visible to the other through the lattice that separates the stalls. It’s surreal when Stiles’ knees make the aging vinyl of the kneeler squeak in the silence. When his mother had been alive, The Stilinski’s were avid church-goers, attending Mass every Sunday and all religious holidays. He’d received the Sacraments of Baptism, Penance and Eucharist before his mom passed away, but Stiles and his father’s faith died with Claudia. He was never Confirmed, and until now has only willingly stepped foot inside churches to frequent funerals and weddings. Technically, without Confirmation, he shouldn’t be genuflecting here in this sacred space. So it’s a damn good thing Stiles’ belief has been buried with his mother for almost twenty years, because there is no end to the list of sins he and Derek are committing on this unholy errand. They converse in hushed, respectful tones, playing their parts, and Stiles departs the booth and the church before Derek’s shift is over, off to monitor the three suspects they have narrowed it down to. 

+++ 

If Stiles is not pushing his limited human luck, he scarcely feels alive these days; a completely normal pavlovian response to spending the last decade surrounded by werecreatures and a banshee. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he exits the confessional one Saturday afternoon, and instead of walking out the vestibule doors as he always does, he slides into a pew in the far corner of the chapel, next to a magnificent stained-glass window, a collection of low-burning candles and a statue of the Virgin Mary. 

He sits forward, butt balanced on the edge of the unforgivingly hard pew, his long, sinewy arms propped on the backrest of the bench in front of him, hands clasped in prayer. He hasn't physically seen Derek in weeks, always choosing to monitor the congregation from a prime vantage point in the parking lot before and after Mass. To Stiles, there is nothing more telling than how someone behaves in the parking lot after church; the same people who shake hands and bless each other are likely to run each other over with their minivans once service is done. ‘Go in peace,’ indeed.

There is an inexplicable itch under Stiles’ skin, brought about, he believes, by the fact that he hasn't gotten a good glimpse of Derek, the only person he knows in this unfamiliar town, in weeks. He’s searching for some sort of solace, and Derek’s face is his anchor, his touchstone. He must be homesick; Derek’s voice alone isn't soothing the strange ache. So he will just wait here, quietly, and Derek will be none the wiser to Stiles’ childish plight.

He regrets his decision when, twenty minutes later, Derek’s large hands pull back the maroon velvet curtain of the confessional, stepping out into the aisle, and Stiles feels the ghost of a shiver run across his back. Derek reaches over his shoulders and smoothly removes his white chasuble, and Stiles is immediately transported into his own bedroom ten years prior, when Derek was removing his blood-stained shirt for Danny’s- and let’s be honest, Stiles’- benefit. Underneath, Derek is wearing a black cassock, belted at the waist. The high black collar surrounding his neck is broken by a slip of bright white cloth at the hollow of his throat.

He can admit into the dark, shadowy space between his entwined fingers that Derek is an insanely attractive man. All the werewolves are supernaturally appealing. It is his lot in life to be surrounded by beauty. But Stiles has never, in all his time on God’s green earth, been attracted to men of the cloth. So why is his cock currently growing hard behind the zipper of his jeans? 

+++

The following day Stiles attends Mass, instead of surveilling from his rental car. He sits in the back pew and naively prays his body's disconcerting reaction to Derek the day prior was just a one off. 

Seeing Derek wearing vestments for service proves that Stiles has a very, very serious problem. 

Stiles doesn’t know how he makes it thought the ceremony, watching Derek’s face, so serious and intent. He has tunnel vision; his eyes narrowing to watch Derek’s plush mouth moving in response to the priest performing the Mass, speaking a mixture of English and Latin. He watches Derek’s thick, graceful fingers as they prepare wine and wafers for the priest's blessing, and imagines those finger preparing Stiles for Derek. Throughout it all, Derek looks dutiful and pious. Something unbearable snakes though Stiles’ gut.

He has to get into those robes, or go insane in the process.

When the congregation rises and waddles forward en masse to receive Holy Communion, he gets to his feet and makes his way along the pews with stumbling steps. Most of the parishioners, Stiles notes from the queue, offer up their hands, cupped, to receive the Eucharist. When it is Stiles’ turn to stand before Derek, the other man doesn’t even bat an eye at his appearance, though he has not seen Stiles at Mass before.

“Body of Christ,” Derek says, voice aloof and controlled, like Stiles is just another member of the flock.

“Amen,” Stiles replies, and opens his mouth in offering.

Here is where Derek falters, nostrils flaring slightly and pupils dilating. No one else would notice the subtle changes. Stiles can’t believe he notices, as blinded by lust as he is. Derek’s eyes smoothly shift over his shoulder as he places the wafer in Stiles mouth. The pad of Derek’s thumb touches his tongue, the barest contact, but as Stiles is moving away he can feel his whole body flame with heat. He is like the land of the Garcia-Johnson pack: leveled, burned away, touched by something divine. 

+++

It’s Wednesday before Stiles goes back to the church to check in with Derek. He has spent his days trailing their leads, and his nights sequestered in his dingy hotel room, jerking off to the memory of stale bread and the salt of Derek’s skin in his mouth.

Inside the confessional is dark and cool. Stiles genuflects. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. It has been four days since my last confession. Bless me, Derek. I have sinned.” 

There is an infinitesimal pause at the use of his Christian name. “From whom do you seek forgiveness?”

And here Stiles goes completely off script. “From you,” he says in a slightly hoarse whisper.

He may not have werewolf senses, but he can hear Derek’s breath hitch on the other side of the lattice. “St-Stiles? What’s going on? Is something the matter? Have you found something?” 

“No. Yes.” Stiles doesn’t know which question he’s answering. His head is a mess of lechery and greed. “No, I haven’t found out anything more. Yes, something is wrong.”

“What?” Derek asks, voice tinged with trepidation. He sounds like his face is pressed to the thin trellis that separates them. 

“I’ve had unclean thoughts,” Stiles admits, breathless.

There is a pause, then Derek scoffs through the grille. “Have you ever had a clean thought in your life? Jesus, Stiles, I thought something was actually wrong.” And Stiles is so far gone, even the blasphemy falling from Derek’s lips turns him on.

“Derek,” Stiles moans. “Something really is wrong. I think… I thought about you when I- oh.” He reaches down, presses his hand against the line of his erection. He is achingly hard already, his dick chubbing up painfully against the back of his zipper. 

From the other side of the lattice, Derek hisses, “I- what? When? When have you thought about me?” He sounds like his clerical collar is tied too tight around his throat.

“It’s the robes. No, wait, maybe not. Maybe it's just you, it's always been you. I can tune it out, most of the time, make myself not notice how gorgeous you are. But then I just… couldn’t. I'm sorry but I want you so bad. Your hands, your mouth, all of you. That’s what I thought about, what I think about, when I touch myself.”

Derek makes a strangled sound of negation in the back of his throat, like he doesn’t want to hear what Stiles has to say, and it rips the heart right out of his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I needed to confess.”

“Stiles, this isn't real,” Derek reminds him, speaking as softly as he would to a skittish animal. “Was it the person summoning the angels? Did you find them and they did something to you? Hurt you in some way? I'm not a real priest, you don't need to confess to me.”

“But what if I want to confess? Right now? What if I want to tell you every dirty thought I’ve had while touching myself since I saw you on Saturday?” Stiles asks. 

“Saturday?” Derek asks, confused. “I didn’t see you Saturday. I saw you Sunday.”

“No, Saturday,” Stiles confirms. “I waited out in the chapel, had to see your face. When I saw you in your robes, I couldn’t… Christ, I wanted to whip out my dick right there in the pew.”

“Wait,” Derek commands, and Stiles hears him shuffling around, a whoosh of fabric, and then seconds later Derek is throwing back the heavy, velvet drape covering Stiles’ stall, and stepping in, letting the curtain fall back behind him, obscuring them once again. His mouth opens wide in a gasp. He’s looking down at Stiles, his impossibly colored eyes cut sharp in surprise.

Stiles can only imagine what Derek sees when he looks at him. Skin adrenaline-flushed and lips wet and bitten red. He must look half debauched already, but he knows his eyes are shining and clear. For a moment he thinks he is going to have to explain himself again to Derek, make sure Derek understands that he isn’t under some sort of supernatural influence. But when Stiles looks up at him from his subservient position on the kneeler, he sees that Derek only needs one glance at him to know. There is so much that isn’t being said, that Stiles can’t find words for, but they know each other so well after all these years, maybe have known each other better than anyone else ever could since this whole werewolf debacle began, that what is being left unsaid doesn’t matter right now.

This time, when Derek says, "Stiles," it's all urgency, hot and wet and laced with a delicious sliver of confusion, like Derek doesn't know what he wants, exactly, but he wants it with Stiles. 

Stiles moans at the depraved tone, at the sight of Derek in his robes, made dizzy and panting by desire. The slide of his legs from the padded kneeler to the unforgiving wooden floor is smooth as summer heat; the outward sign of an inner grace he has never known or demonstrated before. He reaches for Derek’s cassock, let’s out an outraged cry at the sheer number of buttons standing in the way of him and Derek’s dick.

He pushes his face against the starchy material at Derek’s groin as he undoes button after button, groaning at the sensation of it scratching the skin of his cheek, at the heat radiating from Derek's body.

He finally releases enough buttons to push aside the cassock and pull out Derek’s hard cock. It is the most alluring sight Stiles has ever seen; head slipping out of the foreskin, purple with blood. Come is pearling at the slit, making Stiles’ fingertips sticky.

Derek makes a rolling, satisfied noise in his chest at the sight and feel of his dick in Stiles’ grip, and the sound releases a flood of ecstasy inside Stiles.

He leans forward, smears the pre-come all over his mouth before he darts out his tongue to lick from tip to base, wetting the way for the smooth slide of his lips down the shaft. He opens wide, taking Derek into his mouth, sucking him down as he cups both his hands around Derek’s balls, like he’d seen the parishioners do when receiving Communion. 

Derek groans out a choked off, ragged entreaty.

His cock is dripping wet now, come leaking steadily and Stiles' mouth is filthy with it. Obscene, gratifying noises of skin and spit are the only things filling the space between Stiles’ ears. He is drunk off the dark, sweet flavor of Derek inside him.

And here, on his knees serving Derek, Stiles finally has some semblance of an idea of how churchgoers must feel when they sit in this dark, damp box, being absolved of their sins. Loved and free.

Derek starts to mindlessly rock his hips forward toward Stiles, so he goes still, loosens his jaw and tightens his lips, mouth slack and receptive. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up toward Derek, like a flower toward the sun. Derek fucks his mouth, pulling back when Stiles chokes, but thrusting forward again and again to feel the grip of Stiles’ throat as it spasms around the head.

“I can't… I’m going to-” is all the warning Stiles gets before Derek is coming hot and thick down his throat. He stands there, pulsing and shaking until he has spent himself inside Stiles. The harsh breaths that Derek is still letting out through his clenched teeth are like hymns in Stiles’ ears; so beautiful, so hot.

When he pulls his dick out of Stiles’ mouth, a stray line of spit and come is pulled out too, landing on Stiles’ lips and chin, and spilling onto the cassock. Stiles licks the come from his raw lips, but leaves the rest on his face. He eyes the few white droplets that made their way onto the black robes as well, and really wants to put his mouth to those too, lick and suck until they are his. He presses his hand to his erection, contemplates pulling himself out right now. He's so wound up he could probably just hump his hand and come in his pants.

But he looks up at Derek’s handsome face instead, watches Derek take in his wet eyes, his rapturous expression. Stiles smiles at him, then, and Derek grins back. Stiles would risk eternal damnation for that smile. He is truly blessed.

One of Derek’s large hands smooths through his hair, gently cradles the back of his head. The other cups Stiles’ jaw, the thumb smearing through the mess on his chin as it swipes over his bottom lip. “Stiles.” Derek breathes his name like a benediction. “Stiles, I’ve always-”

That, of course, is the exact moment when someone in the chapel starts to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for joining me in hell.


End file.
